


Just a Head, Nothing Attached

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dress Up, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Kid Fic, Mischief, Pirate Sherlock, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock's Past, Terrorism, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 08:00:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft: "Initially he wanted to be a pirate."</p><p>
  <em>Sherlock: "I welcome you to the Caribbean. Try not to be beheaded as you round the next corner."<em></em></em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Head, Nothing Attached

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Animangamisfit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Animangamisfit/gifts).



_They’re busy now. They won’t notice me..._

Creeping past the living room where his family was bound to be eating their dinner, Sherlock approached a tall bookshelf in the corner. On the third shelf, towering far above the youngest Holmes’ head, sat a chest mutedly gleaming in the lamplight.

Standing on tiptoe, Sherlock curled his small fingers around the latches on the sides of the chest. He tried to make as little noise as possible as he pulled it down onto the floor. His triumphant smile duly faded when he saw the surprise waiting for him on the front of the box.

_A padlock?! Da and Mum resort to a padlock—how desperate are they...?_

Sherlock knew he had to get this lock off in order to reach the chest’s contents. Therefore he set his jaw in determination as he whirled and darted up the stairs to his bedroom. When retrieved from a long running crack in the wall, a case of assorted lock picks was put to good use.

The lock gave easily once the right pick was utilized. Sherlock hummed his pleasure as he opened the lid and caught sight of his goal: the skull. He glanced quickly over his shoulder when he heard the clinking of silverware against a plate. That particular ring was unique to a plate rim measuring one to two and a half inches...

“Mum,” Sherlock muttered to himself. Scooping up the skull, he shoved it underneath the feather-topped hat currently shading his eyes. He replaced his lock pick and the chest in their proper places and began making his way back up the stairs.

“Sherlock William Scott Holmes.” Mum’s voice held the delicate tone of patience wearing thin. “Why are you wearing that ridiculous costume again?”

Sherlock halted for a moment, mentally cursing his ineptness at silent invisibility. Then he turned slowly, the heel of his polished black boot squeaking slightly on the tile.

“Madame, I must assume by the senselessness of your question that you are from a distant land.” Sherlock crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes up at her. “The Holguín Province, judging by your accent and your dress sense—or rather the lack of it.” Striding with as much dignity as he could muster with his shorter gait, Sherlock took his mother’s hand. “Nevertheless I welcome you to the Caribbean. Try not to be beheaded as you round the next corner; a headless corpse is not an attractive sight, especially not if it’s you.”

Sherlock had meant that last part as a compliment, but Mum didn’t seem to take it that way. She took a moment to draw in an indignant breath and Sherlock took advantage of it, escaping up the stairs to his room. As he closed the door, Sherlock could hear the faint sound of his brother yelling.

“Sherlock, you come right back here and apologize to Mum!”

Unable to resist having a poke at his brother, Sherlock shouted back, “Make yourself useful, Mycroft, and protect the good lady from the pirates lurking about. Maybe the chases will take off a few of your pounds!”

Slamming and bolting the door, Sherlock treated himself to a private laugh at his witless family’s expense. He paused. Retrieving the skull from beneath his hat, Sherlock addressed it.

“Perhaps _you_ were beheaded, albeit many years ago. If this is true, then the question becomes: whatever happened to your body?”

The skull gaped blankly back at Sherlock, who frowned at it.

“Very well then. If you won’t give me insight, I’ll find it myself.” Sherlock adjusted his hat and brushed the brim’s long purple feather from his eyes. He peered round his room, seeing not a Londoner’s bedroom but a captain’s cabin. The carpet was replaced by a wooden floor, slick with droplets of sea foam cast off by his wildly swinging cot.

_Ugh. Who opened the porthole and let all the seawater pour onto my cot?_

“Never mind that, though. The game is on!”


End file.
